Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: sam cutler (page 1 of 2)

Page Turner

Hey, Sam Cutler. Whatcha doing?

“Paying f’r the drinks, most likely.”

Jimmy’s still cheap?

“His frugality has become a necessary component of ‘is personality. I once saw ‘im ‘aggle with a Pakistani shopkeep over a pack o’ gum. Took ‘im an hour, but ‘e got the man down to six pence from three ha’pennies and a farthing.”

British currency was inexplicable for years.

“Made the mistake of trying t’ explain it t’ Bobby on the ’72 tour. We both broke down in exhausted weeping.”

Sure. Gotta say: Jimmy looks good. Well-preserved.

“Ironic you should use that phraseology, me son. Pagey was addicted to formaldehyde for most of the 80’s.”

Straight formaldehyde?

“Brought to ‘im by a 12-year-old Satanist.”

That sounds right.

“Best not t’ look into the particulars of Pagey’s past if you’re looking t’ keep enjoying those Zeppelin records.”

Everyone knows the Zeppelin organization was made up of monsters.

“You have no idea, me boy. Percy used to visit elementary schools to defecate on the teachers. Those are ‘ard-working people. They didn’t deserve that.”

They didn’t. Why did you call Robert Plant “Percy?”

“Because he was a great big poofter.”


“Bonzo was illiterate. Liked buying books, though.”


“He’d throw them at people. Real ‘ard, too. Not paperbacks, either. Saw ‘im send four members of Bill Graham’s crew to ‘ospital with the Encylopaedia Brittanica.”

Ow. What about John Paul Jones? He was supposed to be the dignified one.

“Mobbed up.”


“Enforcer for the Kansas City outfit. Vicious man with the icepick.”

I’m learning a lot.

“I am a great teacher, me son. Better’n those what Percy shat upon, anyway.”

Good point.

Handing Out Free Tickets…

The great Jesse Jarnow, whose wonderful book Heads: A Biography of Psychedelic America can be purchased wherever books are sold (which means Amazon or the airport, I guess) sent in this pic of Sam Cutler and Bear. I believe it is from a wedding, though I have no proof. Allow me to enumerate my observations which add up to my belief:

ONE: Sam Cutler’s outfit. When an Englishman has a wedding to go to, he wakes up in that outfit. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t own those clothes: on the day of the wedding, he will emerge from beneath the bedding dressed like that. It’s just biology.

TWO: Bear’s outfit. When the World’s Most Famous Drug Dealer™ has a wedding to go to, that’s the kind of bullshit he throws on.

THREE: Beer’s outfit. Pretty sure that’s a custom “happy couple” beer cozy.

ERGO (or ipso facto, whichever one is correct here): Wedding.


Do Not Disturb

“You’re the weirdest Jehovah’s Witness who’s ever knocked, man.”


Sam Cutler looks like he should be on one of those cheap, weird BBC cop shows from the 70’s where the detective drove a Jensen-Healey and had an exceedingly British catch-phrase for when he caught the bad guy:”You’re well chuffed now, me lad,” or something like that.


I guarantee you that Phil pitched a fit upon being checked into this place.

Everybody Say “Potato Salad!”

Bobby, confused by the sight of a camera that wasn’t aimed at him, sulked until the show.

Even The Buddha Needs A Road Manager

Why are you wearing a backstage pass?

“It is what th’ French call an accoutrement, me son. Little sumpin t’ spice up me appearance. Tells people what genre I belong to, dunnit?”

Is this your van?

“Legally or morally?”

It’s a van. There is no moral ownership of a van.

“Well, that’s where yer wrong, guv. One chooses not a van; the van chooses one. Much like a magical sword. Better ‘n a magical sword, I reckon. Sword’s not particularly useful nowadays, innit? Van’s good for all sorts of wiz. Live in it, drive the band in it. Vans can be converted into mobile dog groomeries, me son. Lucrative business, but hard on th’ knees. That’s what Going Mobile was about. That number The ‘oo did.”

Going Mobile by The Who is about the dog grooming van that comes to your house?

“God’s honest.”

I choose to believe you, but only due to how unimportant this point is.

“Bless ya, lad. You seen Miles anywhere about?

He was here before. Him and Garcia are off somewhere getting high.

“Managed several tours for him.”

You did not.

“Information you won’t find in any ‘istory book, but each word the fuzzy.”


“Cockney rhyming slang. See now, ‘fuzzy’ rhymes with ‘buzzi.’ From there, we go t’ Ruth Buzzi, and ‘Ruth’ pairs up nicely with ‘truth.’ Fuzzy means truth.”

That is absolutely not how Cockney rhyming slang works.

“No need to be all dolphin and chimney.”

Stop it. You’re just making shit up.

“Th’ Dead would take months and months off, lazy buggers that they were, but I preferred an honest day’s work. Or a bit of rumpy-pumpy. Whichever, I just couldn’t sit around. So in between Dead tours, I squired the Man With The Horn around. Complicated man.”

And no one understood him but his woman?

“Nah, they couldn’t figure th’ fucker out, either. He was a bit like Garcia. Loved ‘is fags.”


“Cigarettes, you illiterate colonist. MIles loved ‘is cigarettes. ‘Ated ‘omosexuals.”


“Accused me on the regular of bein’ a poof. Said it was th’ accent. Kept sendin’ poor Chick Corea int’ my room late at night to try an’ grab me willie.”

Yeah, he does that. Who was easier to manage, Miles or the Dead?

“You must be joking.”


“There’s no comparison. 800 dodgy bastards with dope stuck in their beards or a guy who really wants his check? Tell me ‘oo you’d rather shepherd.”

“You talking shit about me, motherfucker?”

“Oh, ‘ello, MIles.”

“Who is that, Miles?”

“Shut the fuck up, you blind motherfucker. Cutler, you owe me $500.”

“Other way around, Miles.”



“Shut the fuck up, Stevie.”

The Ice Cream Kid

What the hell is this?

“It is me reward f’r being a good lad, it is.”

You talking about the ice cream or the girl?

“That’s right.”

I heard you went to Lock’n.

“Pitiful. Simply pitiful. Who’s the great big oily tit?”

The one that plays guitar?

“‘E won’t stop playing guitar, more like it. I found the amount o’ soloing oppressive, and I knew Garcia. At least when ‘e was playing, ‘e wasn’t singing. Like a minstrel act.”

That’s a harsh accusation, Sam Cutler.

“You know I’ve seen actual blackface, right, me son? They did it in England up until the mid-80’s. Slade performed all blacked up f’r their first two records.”

I don’t know if that’s true.

“An’ than there were cover bands. Like down the pub. Playin’ the same kinda guitar as Garcia an’ all that clobber. I was physically ill, I was. Were I a river, I would’ve flowed from the area, but I am sadly not, and so I had to listen to the bollocks.”

You’re very judgemental.

“You know ‘oo I am, right?”


“I was there, me son. Wherever ‘there’ was, I was present.”

You weren’t at Woodstock.

“Too true, because I was managing the Rolling Stones at the time.”

That is a very good excuse.

“Too true.”

Was there anything at Lock’n you liked?

“There is a queue of food trucks, and bugger me if each one isn’t tastier than the last.”

Good answer.

“I’m Sam Cutler.”

Audition Night At The White House

“Mr. President, we have a number of candidates lined up to be your next Communications Director.”

“Communicating, very important. My White House has been the most transparent ever. Couldn’t see through Obama at all because he was black. Many people say this, General Kelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I love when you stand up straight like a soldier.”

“I’m a Marine, sir.”

“Marine, soldier, what’s the difference?”

“Let’s just get started.”

“Good, right, yes, great. Tucker Carlson is on in fifteen minutes. Time to watch Tucker.”

“Send in the first candidate.”


“Oy, they said you were a great orange tit, but I thought they was exaggerating.”

“Who the hell is this foreign skeleton?”

“Sir, this is Sam Cutler. He has a great deal of experience with, um, situations like ours.”

“‘E’s right, Donny. I’ve been at the ‘elm for disasters throughout the decades, I ‘ave.”

“Disaster? This White House is a well-oiled machine, the most oiled. No one’s ever seen this much oil.”

“Aye, me son. An’ the Titanic was greased up, as well.”

“Get Keith Richards’ grandfather out of here, General!”



“Not a win, General! Sad and weak! If this is the best you can do, I’m calling the Mooch back in.”

“That was a warm-up , sir.”

“I never need to warm-up. Stretches, whatever. Never needed to. I’m like a mountain lion.”

“Yes, sir. Next candidate, please!”


“Ugh. What the hell is that? Terrible looking. Trenchcoat and a beret?”


“General, what the hell is this?”

“The ghost of Sam Kinison, sir.”


“Get it the fuck out of here! Call the Ghostbusters! The old ones, not the ugly broads.”


“Very, very bad choices, General! I can’t make America great with this kind of staff.”

“Well, sir, this is what answered the want-ad.”

“Bottom of the barrel, General.”

“We dug through the barrel weeks ago, sir. We’re getting close to the bedrock. I think you’ll like this next one, though.”

“Hot chick?”

“No, sir.”

“Thin ice, Kelly.”



“Mr. President! You are the strongest leader America’s ever seen, and there is NO Russia.”

“I like this, good, yes, good.”

“This is plot by Zionists and the Western Media to make us look foolish.”

“Excellent, wonderful, beautiful.”

“By the sword of Allah, we will kill our enemies.”

“I liked the second half of that.”

“And there are no tanks at all in Baghdad.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. President, do you know Baghdad Bob?”

“Uh-huh. General, c’mere.”


“Whisper whisper whisper Muslim?”

“Whisper whisper whisper yes.”


“Your eyes look like the testicles of an ugly camel.”

“Go back to Iran!”

“Iraq, you dumbass.”


“General, this is not good. Not good! Very weak and disgusting candidates so far. Why don’t we call that tall lady?”

“Tall lady, sir?”

“The one with the nose who you can’t tell if she’s hot or not.”

“Are you talking about C.J. Cregg, sir?”

“I don’t learn women’s names.”

“I’ll see if she’s free, sir. I…huh. I thought we were done, but we have one more applicant.”




“I like this guy already, General.”


“Very handsome and confident. What’s your name, son?”

“What’s my name? My name? You want to know my name? Uhhhh…it’s…uh…Alberto…Poncharelli.”

“Strong name. Lends itself to a fun nickname. Very, very good.”

“Mr. President, you who are so powerful and wise. I will serve you so well. I will crush your enemies and hear the lactations of their women. I will stick my dick in the lying, fake, lying New York Times, and then I’ll take pictures of their sticky bodies to show you for your amusement.”

“General, I love this guy.”

“Sir, this is–”

“When can you start, Ponch?”

“I can start right now.”

“The best! Wonderful, beautiful, I make great choices. See, General! Clean slate!”


Going South On The Mountain

Hey, Sam Cutler. Whatcha doing?

“Addressin’ the multitudes, aren’t I?”

Is this Altamont?

“Is there a foot-high stage with a concussed teen not receiving medical attention in front of it?”


“Well, then, it would be Altamont, sunshine.”

Not a great moment.

“Dramatic, though, wunnit?”

It’s virtually a cottage industry at this point.

“There are many misconceptions about Altamont. No one knows the true story.”

Let’s hear it.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

It was a little bit your fault.

“Minuscule, me son. I was a cog in a mighty machine within a massive factory, I was. There were the Stones and the Dead and that gasbag lawyer. What people don’t remember is that all of San Francisco, all them flower power kiddies, they were screaming at the Stones. ‘Why don’t you play free? How dare you charge for tickets?’ All that Woodstock nonsense when the Stones are broke and paying a 95% tax rate back ‘ome.”

Plus they did a free show in Hyde Park at the beginning of the summer.

“A man ‘oo knows ‘is ‘istory. Too true. All the British boys and girls came to the park and sat and behaved themselves. You lot? More than ten of you in a field and there’s a riot.”

That’s not true. The Hells Angels were beating on everyone in sight. Then, when it got dark, they started beating on people they couldn’t see.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

You’ve asserted that.

“The Dead said that the Angels were cool. And–it must be noted well–half of this equipment and the crew is from the Dead. If Altamont is to be blamed on anyone, it should be on the Grateful Dead. I’ll never forgive them.”

You went to work them almost immediately after Altamont.

“Business is business, lad. Besides, they wrote a song about it. That’s good enough.”

You know the Stones are gonna ditch you, penniless, in San Francisco the day after this photo is taken, right?

“I do, I do. I seem to be experiencing my entire life at once.”

Are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

“I am, I am.”

You’re the first person who’s ever answered “yes” to that.

“I’m Sam fucking Cutler, me son.”


You Can’t Keep A Good Man, Or Sam Cutler, Down

Did you go back? I thought you hated Phish.

“That’s an affirmative. Painful music to listen to, just the worst.”

So why are you back?

“The chicken sandwiches.”

I keep hearing about them.

“It’s a feast for all your senses, me son. Open the wrapper, the steam wafts towards your snoot. There’s a pickle hidden within. This adds a spritely tartness to the proceedings. Glorious sandwich, simply marvelous.”

I’m sure you can find something similar in New York City. You didn’t have to pay for another ticket.

“Oh no no, I didn’t pay. Made a call. An’ I went backstage. You need to understand: the music was so piss-poor that I needed to look in the eyes of the men what made it.”

You really didn’t enjoy Phish.

“So the little goblin in the sarong comes up to me. With those arms ‘e’s got. Alabaster and limpid. I mean, do a pushup. Starts in talking about Debbie Washerwoman-Shultz, whoever in God’s name she is. I don’t bother the Septics about our bloody politics, I don’t know why they feel the need to burden me with theirs.”

I assume you extricated yourself from the situation with aplomb.

“I dosed ‘im and propped open an outside door so some Hells Angels could steal their equipment.”

Or like that.

“The ‘ospitality was non-existent. None whatsoever. I say to the poof with the lip gloss–”

Mike Gordon is not a “poof” and we don’t use that word anymore.

“–I say, Oy, mate. Where’s the nitrous room? He tells me there ain’t one. What kind of generation is this?”

No idea how to answer that.

“Do you know not one member of that so-called rock band is dead? Not one. I don’t know what happened to the world.”

Me, neither.

This Could Be A Fun Game

Someone did this this morning:

Now this is up:

And just let me say I do NOT approve of this.

That’s good. This is literally fake news.

Oh, I’m not pissed because of that. I just think the jokes could be better.

You never don’t disappoint me.

I’m consistent.

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